“I knew you were gonna say that before the words came out of your mouth,” Hawk said.
“Are you trying to suggest that you can read minds?”
Hawk shook his head. “No, just that you’re predictable in that way. You never miss a chance to needle me.”
“Predictability, that’s it,” Alex said, getting excited. “That’s the key to figuring out what Fazil is going to do next.”
“A kidnapping of this nature is about as unpredictable as it gets for Fazil.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alex said as she snapped. “Think about it. Whenever he makes a move like this, he’s doing it for leverage or to gain a better position to unleash an attack on the U.S.”
“So, which one is it?”
Alex sank in her seat and stared blankly out the window. “That I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Exactly—and neither am I, which we’re both finding out is most unfortunate.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the gate of Thomas Colton’s expansive estate. Sequestered among four other homes in a ritzy enclave that spanned nearly a hundred acres, it served as a respite from the seemingly endless wave of suburban neighborhoods with houses packed tightly next to each other.
“Guess everything really is bigger in Texas,” Alex quipped.
“If you’ve got enough money,” Hawk said.
He pressed the call button and waited. Moments later, Gayle’s face appeared on the screen.
“Yes? May I help you?” she asked.
“Miss Gayle, it’s me, Brady Hawk,” he answered. “Can me and one of my associates have a few minutes of your time? It’s about Thomas.”
Even as the words came out of his mouth, they felt strange. No matter how ready he was to move on from the news that Thomas Colton wasn’t his father, Hawk still felt awkward calling the man anything other than Dad.
She dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “Okay, I guess I can speak with you for a few minutes.”
The screen went black, and then the gates swung open.
“Did you two get along before?” Alex asked.
“Remember, I was supposedly the bastard child, so I wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms, especially when she found out that he was hiding my existence from her. Since the truth has come out, I’m just a reminder that her husband is a philanderer.”
“Yet she won’t give him up?”
“Take a look around,” Hawk said. “She’d also have to give all of this up, not to mention that she lives for Dallas’s high society. It’s why she made him move from Houston.”
“No comparison in the social scene?”
“That’s what Colton told me once, though I’m only taking his word for it. I’m not exactly up on the high society happenings in Texas and where each city ranks accordingly. I hate that stuff.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, about that. You might want to keep your opinions to yourself on such things. Gayle can be a great ally for us, or she can become a pretty formidable foe.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hawk parked in the drive that circled a water fountain depicting a ring of mermaids all spitting water through their mouths into the center of the pool. Alex glanced at the pool and then at the three-story, Tudor-style house before taking in the rest of the grounds.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Hawk asked.
Alex nodded. “I knew I should’ve been a weapons manufacturer.”
Hawk shook his head. “It’ll get you a nice head, but it’ll also get you kidnapped by maniacal terrorists. Sure you don’t want to retract that last statement?”
Alex shrugged. “I’ve been kidnapped by those same kidnappers, except I’m not getting any of the benefits.”
Hawk sighed. “Trust me, this life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Neither is trying to stop terrorists, but I’m dealing with it.”
Hawk chuckled. “Alex, you love what you do. And I’m convinced this life would bore the hell out of you. Wearing high heels and sipping champagne while you talk about your latest show dog experience or trip to the Caribbean—that’s not you.”
“You’re probably right, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a try for a while.”
Hawk knocked on the front door and waited for Gayle. She opened it and welcomed them inside. She first hugged Hawk and held him tight.
Hawk looked at Alex, whose eyes widened.
“I don’t know what this is,” Hawk mouthed to her behind Gayle’s back.
Then Gayle turned and hugged Alex.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Gayle,” Alex said.
Gayle tried to hold back the stream of tears, but her attempts failed. The mascara streaked down her face as the waterworks flowed.
“They took him,” Gayle said as she dabbed her eyes. “The bastards took Thomas. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Did you speak with them?” Hawk asked.
She sniffled. “Let’s sit down in the parlor.”
Gayle led Hawk and Alex to a small sitting room and took a seat across from them. She paused a few moments to regain her composure before continuing.
“I wired them twenty million as Thomas instructed me this morning,” she said. “I know they were making him tell me to do it.”
Alex whistled. “Twenty million. My god.”
“Yeah, that’s about the same response I had,” Gayle said, “though I threw in a few choice words as well. But that’s not all.”
“They want more?” Hawk asked.
“Twenty million more,” she said.
“And you’re supposed to wire it to them when?” Hawk asked.
“Actually, I’m not supposed to wire this amount,” Gayle said. “They want this portion in cash.”
“Cash? How do they think you’re going to get it to them?”
“They don’t want me to give it to them—they want you to do it.”
Hawk withdrew and scowled. “Me? They expect me to do it?”
“Apparently you’re their delivery boy of choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going with you.”
“And where am I going?” Hawk asked.
“Morocco, I think.”
“I don’t like how this sounds.”
“But that’s not all the details,” Gayle said. “Aside from the twenty million in cash, you’re supposed to call a number they gave me once you reach Moroccan airspace, and they will tell you what airport to land at.”
“Sneaky bastards. They’re really intent on making sure I don’t bring the cavalry with me.”
“No way you’re going without me,” Gayle said.
“Or me either,” Alex added.
“Of course you are,” Hawk said. “I doubt I could stop either one of you, even if I tried.”
CHAPTER 5
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG WASN’T READY to make his move into the White House permanent just yet, but he felt like a man with the game in hand and his opponent was helpless to stop him. That was the kind of advantage he was happy to take after outing his opponent’s son as a conspirator in allowing a terrorist into the country to detonate a suitcase nuke in the middle of New York City. The election seemed to be all but a foregone conclusion. However, Young didn’t carry that confidence into public, preaching that the American people needed to go out and vote. He surprised himself with the amount of passion he was able to muster in hammering home that campaign message.
An aide dropped off a copy of the latest polling reports and lingered while Young read them.
“Looking good,” Young said. “I think this is what we were all hoping to see.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide replied. “Just over a week to go, and everything is pointing toward you being chosen by the American people.”
Young thanked the man and watched him slip out of the door. With lunch fast approaching, Young interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back, basking in the feeling of a looming triumph. There was still plenty of wor
k to be done to secure the presidency, but he could almost taste it.
If I’m sitting in this chair in two weeks, it’ll be because I earned it, not because I hitched my horse to Conrad Daniels, God rest his soul.
In a moment of self-honesty, Young admitted a more brutal truth lurked beneath the surface of his brash statement. Reality was hidden beneath an avalanche of intangibles that served as a more-constant reminder of his good fortune rather than his shrewd political posturing. Losing to a candidate who had family connections to what would’ve been the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil, perhaps the deadliest attack of any kind in the country’s history, would be a task of nearly insurmountable odds. This fact was even more apparent given that Young didn’t have any skeletons in his closet that could compete with the albatross swinging from James Peterson’s neck.
Right place, right time.
That was the truth when Young looked objectively at all the facts and the way everything had played out. He received the nod for vice president when Conrad Daniels went looking for a running mate who could win a few extra votes as opposed to losing them. Young possessed dashing good looks—dark complexion, strong jaw line, sparkling blue eyes, a megawatt smile, and a smooth voice that commanded attention—and a political record that was more centrist than activist. And when pressed about the matter in an exploratory interview with Daniels’s aides, Young admitted he had no aspirations of ever becoming president. All those factors combined to make him the perfect vice presidential candidate.
But that seemed like ages ago in political time.
Young had changed along with his aspirations. The waters of discontent went from stirred to thrashing waves. Over the final six months of Daniels’s life, Young had grown ill thinking about the possibility of remaining as the president’s “yes man” for another term. Even though he saw the power he could wield from his position to keep Daniels in check and mitigate any policy missteps regarding terrorism in the Middle East, Young yearned to trade his behind-the-scenes role for a more prominent one. Perhaps playing second fiddle awakened a desire he never realized he had. Whatever the reason for his newfound drive to become president, Young felt invigorated and hopeful about the future of the country.
As Young was pondering the coming months and what he would do in his first hundred days in office, his cell phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize. He’d adopted a policy of ignoring calls from numbers he didn’t have entered into his contact list. With the swipe of his finger, he sent the caller straight to voicemail. His secretary could transcribe the message for him later. Seconds later, a text message appeared on the phone’s screen:
check under your desk
Young furrowed his brow and wondered who the mystery caller was. Nevertheless, he groped beneath his desk, feeling around until he came upon a smooth piece of paper. He knelt down and looked at the object: a white envelope, taped tightly to the bottom of the center drawer.
What’s this?
He tore open the envelope and dug out a letter that had been folded several times. Fold by fold, Young slowly returned the paper to its original size before reading it.
Questions abound. The American people deserve to know the truth about what happened that day.
Beneath it was a website address along with a login code. Young pecked the address into the appropriate location at the top of his web browser. Moments later, a black screen appeared with a white box in the center, presumably for the code. After keying in the password, Young waited for the website to materialize. Once the site loaded, the same words written on the note were also posted at the top of the page. In the center was a video still obscured only by a universal play symbol.
Young furrowed his brow and dragged his mouse on top of the image before clicking. A split second later, the video went full screen and started to play.
The image appeared shaky and looked to be shot from the viewpoint of someone running through the woods. The image grew steadier as the person behind the camera found a place to rest and presumably hide. However, the shot swept across a stretch of woods. Almost immediately, Young recognized the location and cringed. He knew what he was about to see.
Depicted on camera was Young along with Brady Hawk talking with a bedraggled Conrad Daniels. Thirty seconds later, Daniels was shown slitting his wrist and bleeding out.
Anybody who watched the images on the screen would have a mountain of questions, given that the official narrative of Conrad Daniels’s death was that of a heart attack. But Daniels obviously died another way. So, why lie about it? Why keep the truth from the American people? What drove Daniels to do this? Did he have mental health issues? Was he under the influence of drugs? Was he coerced? Threatened? And why did the vice president and some other man just let it happen without calling for help in a reasonable amount of time?
That was just the beginning of the questions the media and public would be asking if they watched the final minutes of Conrad Daniels’s life. A video like this would certainly erode the people’s trust in him along with his chances of winning the presidency.
Young’s phone buzzed, alerting him to another text message from the mysterious caller.
That wasn’t natural causes from a heart attack. Ready to talk?
Young wasn’t ready to talk because the American people weren’t ready to hear the truth, though he doubted they ever would be. Their attempts to sweep Daniels’s death under the rug had suddenly become an October surprise in December—and one of his own making.
Young only wanted to make the video—and the person behind it—simply go away.
CHAPTER 6
HAWK ONLY HAD TO WAIT six hours for J.D. Blunt to show up at the Dallas Executive Airport with his jet prepped for the long flight to Morocco. During that time, Hawk and Alex tried to comfort Gayle by exuding confidence in their ability to get her husband back from Al Hasib. Hawk also discussed with Alex the best way to handle any forthcoming negotiations with the terrorists. Without knowing the full extent of their demands, they decided such an exercise was futile, especially since the possibilities seemed too numerous to reach any consensus approach.
When Blunt’s plane landed, he lumbered down the stairs, using his cane to steady himself. He grimaced with each step and offered a weak attempt at a wave once he reached the ground.
“Does he look all right to you?” Alex asked.
Hawk shook his head. “I know this business of fighting Al Hasib has taken a toll on everyone, but he seems to be taking it the hardest.”
“But he looks like someone who’s endured more than just a stressful period of life,” she said. “He looks like he’s suffering.”
“Perhaps, but he always seems to labor beneath the burden of responsibility.”
“But don’t we all?”
“Yes, but not as much as Blunt does.”
Hawk and Alex walked forward to meet Blunt, exchanging handshakes and congenial hugs. They led him over to Gayle, who went straight for a long embrace.
“Please get him back for me,” Gayle said, refusing to let go.
Blunt waited for a moment before withdrawing. “We’ll do our best to bring him home.”
She shook her head. “And I’ll be right there with you.”
“But I don’t think—”
“I’m coming too, J.D., whether you like it or not. This is my Tommy we’re talking about.”
Blunt took a deep breath and shrugged. “Feel free to tag along, but just know that we can’t guarantee your safety. Everyone here has a part in this mission and can’t be bogged down by having to guard you.”
“I understand and accept full responsibility for myself.”
“In that case, let’s go get your husband,” Blunt said, gesturing toward the plane.
They all grabbed their luggage, piled into Blunt’s jet, and then hurried to prepare for takeoff.
Once they were in the air, Blunt sat next to Hawk and Alex to discuss how they would handle the ransom and exchange.
; “Do you have the money?” Blunt asked.
Hawk shot a glance toward the back of the plane where Gayle sat with four large suitcases. “She said she would pay any amount she could to get her husband back. And I think she really meant that.”
“Well, that’s one part of the equation,” Blunt said. “But we need to be able to track that money. The fact that Al Hasib already wrested twenty million from the Coltons is a travesty in and of itself, but now they’re going to double that? We’re going to have to be perpetually on high alert in until we’re able to shut down that account.”
“We’ve got some people working on tracing the money,” Alex said. “We’ll figure out a way to refuse them access to it.”
“That’s why twenty million in cases creates a different kind of issue.”
“We got a list of the serial numbers from a random sampling of the money,” Alex said. “They won’t be able to deposit that without red flags being raised.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Blunt said. “What if they decide to deal in cash now? We’re really shooting ourselves in the foot with this approach, just like I told the folks at the Pentagon.”
“I think we’re all in agreement on that,” Hawk said, “but there’s not a lot we can do about it now. This is the hand we’ve been dealt, so we just have to figure out a way to win without any aces up our sleeves.”
“It’s hard to win when you don’t know what game you’re playing,” Blunt said.
“At its core, this is a mind game,” Alex said. “Karif Fazil knew Gayle would pay and had the connections to get Hawk to deliver the money.”
“But why Hawk?” Blunt asked. “Unless of course, it’s a set up.”
“Fazil wouldn’t do that,” Hawk said. “He’s got too much pride. If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of chances in the past. I think he’s more focused on wanting me to see him triumph than he is on simply killing me. In my conversations with him and based on what we know from intel reports, Fazil’s ire is directed at the U.S. government and our military for what happened to his family. He’s not some idealistic jihadist as he wants the world to believe—he’s simply out for revenge.”
Two Minutes to Midnight Page 3
